


heartless killjoy

by etymologyplayground



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, enjolras is a fucking lightweight, this isn't sad it's just kind of dumb and silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etymologyplayground/pseuds/etymologyplayground
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hello friends this was for a drabble prompt on tumblr so i did the thing, i guess.</p><p>Honestly, this whole thing is Courfeyrac’s fault. It is. Somehow. Probably. All Grantaire knows, honestly, is that there had been some sort of bet earlier in the evening, and that Enjolras had lost, so he had to drink whatever Courf ordered him. But since Courf— in his own words— was “a merciful god,” Enjolras got to choose which drinks were ordered. Hence the nauseatingly bright cocktails. That nerd. Grantaire hasn’t had the chance to drink more than a single beer, because he’s been so concerned with keeping Enjolras alive. No thanks to Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heartless killjoy

**Author's Note:**

> ok content warning for alcohol OBVIOUSLY, content warning for enjolras being a GIANT NERD, and content warning for this is like three hundred words long and it was not beta read and i apologise for both of those things
> 
> original post here: seraheureux.tumblr.com/post/72199605142

"Enjolras."

"What."

"You should probably drink some water at some point."

“ _You_  never drink water.”

"I don’t particularly value my liver. You, on the other hand…"

"My liver is fine. Completely, totally, absolutely fine. I’m not drunk. I don’t get drunk."

"Aren’t you, like, an organ donor? You should be keeping all your organs in tip-top condition or whatever, what if some poor underprivileged kid needs a liver someday and there’s none available because you pickled yours?"

Enjolras actually looks a little put-out at that, finally looking up dolefully from the latest in a trio of carefully-lined-up empty cocktail glasses. They had all been alarmingly brightly colored, which was a function of just how much extra flavoring had been added— Enjolras was a  _loser_ who could not find the will power to just drink beer like a normal person. He was also a horribly embarrassing lightweight, because he  _doesn’t_  drink like this, not usually, so he was well on the way to being well and truly drunk. He has classes in the morning.

"Okay, Legolas, let’s get some water into you and then get out of here," Grantaire says, and he  _cannot fucking believe_  that  _he’s_  being the responsible one here. Damn Combeferre for his ability to disappear just when Grantaire needs his presence most.

"I don’t understand that reference," Enjolras informs him, even though he has  _absolutely_  been forced to sit through the entirety of Courfeyrac’s annual winter LOTR-athon at least twice. “‘m not drunk.”

God, he hates this boy.

He flags down the bartender and gets a water, which is free, thank  _god._ Enjolras stares at him resentfully over the top of the glass, but he drinks the water obediently enough.

Honestly, this whole thing is Courfeyrac’s fault. It is. Somehow. Probably. All Grantaire knows, honestly, is that there had been some sort of bet earlier in the evening, and that Enjolras had lost, so he had to drink whatever Courf ordered him. But since Courf— in his own words— was “a  _merciful_ god,” Enjolras got to choose which drinks were ordered. Hence the nauseatingly bright cocktails. That  _nerd_. Grantaire hasn’t had the chance to drink more than a single beer, because he’s been so concerned with keeping Enjolras  _alive_. No thanks to Courfeyrac.

"Greetings, mortals!" Speak of the devil. Courf slings his arms around both their necks and swoops down to plant a horrible, loud,  _wet_  kiss on Enjolras’s cheek, then Grantaire’s. “How’s the drinking going, Enjolras, my sun and stars? Can you still spell  _Marseillaise_ backwards?”

Enjolras can’t really do that sober, but he doesn’t have to know that. He scrunches up his nose ( _Grantaire really, really hates this boy_ ) and squints into the distance ( _so much_ ) for a moment, then starts, “E. S. A—”

Courfeyrac makes an ungodly beeping sound, like the button on  _Jeopardy_  or whatever. “Nope! There’s an i in there. See, look, I got Combeferre to write it on my arm in case I couldn’t remember it either. Which I can’t.” He rolls up one sleeve and displays his arm proudly, and there is indeed  _esialliesram_ written in Combeferre’s neat print on his tan skin. Enjolras looks grudgingly impressed.

Grantaire needs new friends.

"Courf, can you take over babysitting duty for me? This is too stressful, I don’t want to be responsible for Enjolras getting alcohol poisoning out of pure spite," he says. Enjolras makes a little noise of protest. He’s probably offended about the babysitting comment. "Alternately, get someone to take him home before he starts something."

"I’m not gonna start something!" Enjolras protests. He’s taking greater care than usual to enunciate properly. "Anyway my tendency to start things is  _totally unrelated_  to how drunk I am. I would start something if I were sober too.”

Grantaire leans toward him and widens his eyes. “Believe me.  _I know,_ " he says, and Courfeyrac cackles.

"Okay, capital-R, if you’re so insistent for Enjolras to go home, why don’t  _you_  take him?” He winks unsubtly and Grantaire has to resist the urge to throttle him.

"Honestly, man, he doesn’t have to go home if he doesn’t want to, he just needs someone to babysit him. Right, Enjolras?" he adds, glancing desperately to where Enjolras is slumping over slowly and starting to make stupid sounds with his mouth. He looks up when he hears his name.

"Actually," he says, and it sounds more like  _acshully,_  “If going home means I don’t have to drink any more of this… this  _swill_ , then I’m okay with leaving. This is foul, I don’t unnerstand why people do this to themselves.” He pouts a little and Grantaire wants to slam his own head into the bar.

“ _Okay,_ I guess that answers that question. Couf, do you think Combeferre can take him?”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras shrug at exactly the same time, which is more than a little creepy.

"I think Combeferre’s doing his weird Vulcan mind-meld thing with Feuilly, they’ve been talking pretty much since we got here. I kind of don’t want to interrupt him," Courf says.

As soon as he stops talking, Enjolras says, ”Anyway I don’t  _want_  Combeferre. I want you,” and Grantaire’s brain short-circuits. Enjolras tugs pathetically on Grantaire’s sleeve, and he’s  _got_  to be doing this on purpose. Enjolras widens his eyes and turns the corners of his lips down in a pretty good imitation of Cosette when she wants something. He’s actually able to hold it for a moment, and then his mouth starts trembling and he starts exhaling shakily through his nose, and then everything cracks and he collapses laughing onto the bar. That fucker.

After a few moments he straightens again, wiping  _real tears_  from his eyes, still giggling helplessly. “Okay but seriously, please take me home, this is terrible, I’m ruining my heartless killjoy cred.”

Grantaire stares at him. “That’s impossible. You’re going to be a heartless killjoy until the day you die. But okay, get your jacket on,” because when it comes down to it he really can’t deny Enjolras anything if he asks politely.

"I feel suddenly abandoned by this conversation. Can I go back to everyone else now? Text me when you get home," Courfeyrac says.

"Okay. Thanks for paying for the drinks," Enjolras adds. "I mean, not thanks for  _making me drink them,_ but. Yeah. Okay. We’re leaving now! Bye.” He grabs clumsily at Grantaire’s arm and slides off the bar stool. Courf returns the sentiment, pays for the drinks, and wanders away as Enjolras tries to get his coat on. It takes a moment, because he keeps losing track of which sleeve goes where and ends up turning around in circles until Grantaire takes pity on him and helps him like you would a little kid (or a drunk person).

"Success!" Enjolras declares, wiggling his fingers triumphantly at the ends of the correct sleeves. It’s unbearably cute. Grantaire hates everything. He focuses on buttoning Enjolras’s jacket for him, because of course he needs help with that, and tries not to feel Enjolras staring at his hands, which he is, because he’s a creeper.

"Okay, you. Let’s go. Your key is still hidden in the same place?"

"Yes. Yep. Yes. Let’s goooooooo."

"Alright, alright, bossypants," Grantaire says, but he’s trying not to grin like the dumb asshole he is.

As they pass the rest of les Amis on their way out, they get a frankly unnecessary amount of whistles and catcalls, which Courfeyrac doesn’t even  _try_  to correct, because he’s a horrible traitor. What’s worse is that Grantaire can’t even bring himself to care that much, because Enjolras still hasn’t let go of his arm and he’s kind of leaning against him in a really distracting way and maybe Grantaire doesn’t hate Courf  _all_  that much.

Maybe just a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> please come visit me on tumblr i am soisserieuse.tumblr


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